


The Same Old Sin

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [21]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: File under: conversations you don’t want to have while hung over.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	The Same Old Sin

It’s nearly 12 am, and Hilda and Mary are nearly sober when Charlotte Kingston parks her Bronco in the gravel drive of the Spellman Mortuary.

The plan had been that Miss Kingston would drop them off, Mary would continue to sleep it off in the guest room—there would be no Lincoln Towncar to retrieve from Saratoga at some later point because she’d taken the bus there so she could surreptitiously drink from her spiked Tervis while she researched on her phone what various and sundry bizarre paranormal activities might have resulted in the situation she had found herself in—and Hilda and Mary would corner Zelda in the morning and demand a meaningful conversation.

A good, solid, linear plan. Alas, one knows what they say about best laid plans.

It’s a week night, so usually the house would be mostly dark—maybe a few lamps in discrete windows indicating bed-time reading or red-eye homework or insomniac solitaire. But that’s not the case this evening. The whole main floor is aglow as is most of the second floor and the attic. There are myriad shadows undulating against the window dressings in the reception room. It’s not loud, but it’s obviously bustling and teeming with life and activity.

Hilda’s hackles rise. She can feel a lot of suspicion and animosity and fear emanating from inside the house, but she can’t exactly pin down where or from whom these feelings originate.

Mary perks up from where she’s sprawled in the back seat: 

“What’s all this, then? You’re gone for the day, so your family decided to host a party?”

“I don’t think that’s what’s happening at all,” Miss Kingston says. Hilda tears her eyes away from the kitchen window where she’d been trying to discern what figures were there behind the curtain and looks over at Miss Kingston, whose jaw is clenched and whose brow is furrowed.

Hilda knows objectively that mortals are incapable of the type of empathic knowledge she possesses, but she also knows anecdotally that some mortals are able to perceive certain currents of the supernatural and usually attribute this sensitivity to intuition. As she’s looking at Miss Kingston looking at the mortuary, she slips into her brain—superficially, unobtrusively, just out of curiosity. And as she’d suspected, Miss Kingston is one of those in-tune mortals who detects things outside the mortal realm. And Miss Kingston is currently detecting what her brain has classified as a “bad vibe.”

Hilda uses her most upbeat voice, exudes her most upbeat aura. She would also classify her feelings on the current state of her home—generally—as a “bad vibe,” but she doesn’t want Miss Kingston to get any deeper into this than she already has. Hilda says,

“Well! Thanks for the ride home! I’ll call you tomorrow—”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Miss Kingston says.

Mary is already out of the car, rolling her neck and then stretching her arms above her head. They both watch her for a moment.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for—” Hilda starts and Kingston finishes,

“Why your house is all lit up like Christmas Eve but it’s a Tuesday in September. Forgive me if I’m a bit suspicious.” Miss Kingston reaches across Hilda’s lap and opens the glove box, retrieves a .357 magnum snub-nose revolver with cherry wood grips. She opens her door and stands, shakes herself out, and then stashes the gun in the back of her waist band under the hem of her sleeveless blouse. She crosses in front of the hood of the Bronco and opens Hilda’s door, says, “Allow me to walk you both in?”

But that’s just Kingston’s politeness talking. Hilda knows she can’t say no to the question, that Kingston has already decided this is a weird place and a weird situation and that she will be protecting everyone with her beautiful biceps and her beautiful pistol. Hilda merely nods.

Miss Kingston’s long, shapely legs stride forward. She’s a yard or so in front of Hilda and Mary because she’s appointed herself their protector, and her back is straight and tense, and Hilda can’t help but admire the planes of muscle shifting before her. Hilda knows there are other things she ought to be contemplating. And there are plenty of places in far corners of her brain that are thinking about what in the actual fuck is happening at her house, why Zelda had sneezed the other day considering witches don’t typically contract illnesses, what Lilith is actually up to in Hell. So much is happening and so much is so confusing. 

Mary clutches her elbow and leans in. Mary says into her ear,

“I’m not surprised that your Xena Warrior Princess is so protective. I’m just surprised she has a pistol instead of a chakram.”

Hilda doesn’t laugh. She wants to laugh, but they’ve all arrived at the porch, and Kingston is looking over her shoulder at her in question as to whether she should knock.

Hilda reaches around her and opens the unlocked door.

They all cross the threshold and proceed to the kitchen.

Zelda is leaning against the kitchen island with fingers pressed to her temples. Sabrina is standing in the middle of the galley with her hands raised mid-explanation. And Lilith—in the form of Mary Wardwell—is propped against the round table of the breakfast nook with her head thrown back in laughter.

Miss Kingston is still so tense and so sexy. Her right hand is behind her, clutching the handle of her pistol. She says,

“Glad to see you’re all having such a good time.”

They all look at her. They all register who she is, but their individual understanding of her is different. Zelda and Sabrina see her as a math teacher who’d had a crush on Hilda and so don’t have much to say. But Lilith knows her on a different level—or perhaps the same level but with different emotions about it. Lilith says,

“I’m glad you’re glad. You should probably stay glad and leave while you’re able to.”

Hilda walks forward, means to put herself between them, but Kingston extends her arm, restrains Hilda. Kingston says,

“I might very well be able to leave, but I’m not willing.” She pulls the pistol from her belt and levels it at Lilith’s heart. She says, “I want to know what’s going on here.”

There’s a taut silence.

And then.

“You’re treading dangerous water, Miss Kingston,” Lilith says.

“I’m a strong swimmer,” Miss Kingston says.

Hilda can hardly stand all this. She says,

“Enough!”

There’s another taut pause. And then Sabrina shouts,

“I’m the Queen of Hell!”


End file.
